


The Regular Post

by The_Lake_King



Series: 2021 Valentine's Prompts [5]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Braille, Letters, Long-Distance Friendship, M/M, Referenced Suicide Attempt, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29211717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lake_King/pseuds/The_Lake_King
Summary: Prompt 5. "I hate Valentine's Day." "You only say that because you never get any cards."In which Edward handles his own correspondence, thank you very much.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Edward Courtenay
Series: 2021 Valentine's Prompts [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2137182
Comments: 10
Kudos: 33
Collections: Well I love you: Valentines for Thomas Barrow





	The Regular Post

Sometimes, Edward hated braille. He hated the clunky slate, the heavy paper, the sterility of those little dots, devoid of all the nuance of handwriting or the warm fragility of printed books. He hated the shorthand, the Spartan emphasis on efficiency and practicality in a system that was neither efficient nor practical. He hated it because it felt like he had climbed a mountain only for there to be nothing at the top. It was all well and good that he had found a way to read and write, but if no one else could understand it, what was the point? Even his immediate family couldn’t be bothered. It shouldn’t have surprised him. He supposed, in spite of it all, he still had some spark of optimism left to be crushed.

Sometimes, Edward adored braille. He had been at Farley Hall for nearly five months before the bumbling but patient orderly charged with his care passed him a letter.

“You can read this one yourself, Lieutenant.”

_Dear Edward,_ said the dots. He knew instantly who had written. No need for a return address or a peculiar type of paper. It didn’t matter how he crossed his T’s. There was only one man in the world who wrote to him religiously, though he never managed to visit, what with Downton now under his command. One man who must have stayed up at all hours to study braille, who would do whatever it was he did to get his hands on the required materials with a war going on. Edward had never had much of a rebellious streak, but the thought of Thomas Barrow scheming away, possibly committing petty crimes just to write him a proper letter made him sweat in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

Thomas made no mention of the fact that he was using braille. It was just a letter. The acknowledgement lay in that instead of carefully couched words about the day-to-day of the convalescent home, Edward got biting commentary about Dr. Clarkson, the Crawleys, and the latest batch of staff. Because _no one else had to read it._

The letters kept coming. He knew them immediately whenever he picked up the post by the size and weight of the envelopes. Edward wrote back diligently, learning Thomas’ quirks of shorthand and starting to imitate them without realizing it. Thomas learned his, too. By the time he was sent home to ring in 1918, they very nearly had an indecipherable code going. It was anything but sterile. M referred to Major Clarkson not because Major began with M but because Moustache did. !V referenced Violet Crawley, but when used in a sentence encompassed the whole concept of the aristocracy not understanding that there was a war on and they might, oh horror, have to wait five minutes for their tea whilst other issues were resolved. It was their secret language, warm and close and personal. That was the trouble.

It was all getting a bit _too_ personal. At least, Edward was. He had been living in the realm of too-personal since the first time he met Corporal Barrow. It had been unremarkable, then. Just one more item in the long list of things he could never have. But the desperate scramble between a gloved hand and a razor and the letters that had never dried up made him hope. Hope was terribly dangerous. It made Edward read things into Thomas’ words, tracing his fingers over them late at night for comfort. _If they don’t give me some proper leave soon, I’m going to do something mad_ became _If I don’t see you soon, I’ll go mad._ _I started a novel you might like_ became _I miss reading to you._ _You fight for it, or I’ll never forgive you_ started to sound an awful lot like _Don’t give up, my love._

The one that tipped the scale came in February. Edward clutched it in a death-grip as he stormed up the stairs and shut himself in his room. His mother would describe what he was doing as ‘sulking.’ He would describe it as ‘the alternative to hitting Jack.’ Thomas understood the difference, but would probably say it was both. He tore open the letter, desperate for words from someone who didn’t consider him an inconvenience at best.

_Dear Edward,_

_Everything here is the same as ever, I’m afraid. Lady Grantham and Mrs. Crawley might kill each other before the war is over. That’s if Clarkson doesn’t kill one or both of them first. I hope that Carson hasn’t murdered me in my sleep yet when it happens because I’d like to watch. I think Sybil is actually going to elope with the chauffeur, and I can’t even summon the energy to be upset about it. She might be better off that way. They won’t disown her; not forever. He’s an idiot idealist, but he does seem to love her, which is more than I can say for most of the men who sniff around._

_You had a lot to say in your last letter, so in answer I’ve made you a point-by-point list:_

  1. _Jack can suck an egg._
  2. _She-who-must-not-be-named can suck a pickled egg. I know you must have seen something in her at some point, but I hope to God I can inspire you to stop now._
  3. _I’m well aware that sabotaging parties is terribly common, but I’m terribly common you posh git so I don’t know what you want from me. _
  4. _Your butler is a disgrace to his profession. He’s there to serve the family. You are part of the family. Full stop._
  5. _If you describe yourself as a burden to anyone one more time, I will come down there and it will be your fault when I’m bagged for insubordination._
  6. _I would never get a Valentine’s card from someone I wanted._



_I know your family is driving you mad, but how is Devonshire? Have you been out much? Bothered any animals? Tell me everything, even if you’ve been shut up in your room, much as it will make me yell at you. Remember what I told you about fighting your corner. The second this war ends I’ll fight it with you if need be. Say the word and I’ll be there. I’m not a lawyer or a lord, and I don’t know what I can or can’t do about your inheritance, but I could write to people for you and make sure you’re bloody dressed properly. At the very least I can make Yates’ life Hell. I’m a virtuoso at driving butlers mad._

_Keep your chin up. I know it rings hollow sometimes, and I feel like an idiot for writing it when it does. Please tell me how you’re feeling, even if it isn’t good._

_Your friend,_

_T.B._

Edward held the letter to his chest, grinning like a fool. He had floated the idea of Thomas coming to work for him, in the vaguest of terms. It was the first time that his insinuations had been acknowledged. And the answer was clearly yes. He could have danced. It was no use trying to tamp down the part of his mind that turned the innocent joy of walking through the woods again into something involving a picnic blanket and ungentlemanly acts. Although…perhaps he didn’t have to.

He re-read the letter, his finger sliding to a halt on point number six. Thomas’ last letter had begun with _I hate Valentine’s Day_ , and had gone on to describe troubles with nurses and maids alike, and how the whole ethos of the day drove him ‘’round the twist.’ Edward had teased him, writing back _I bet you only say that because you never get any cards._ It had been a light jab at Thomas’ prickliness, but he realized that it would probably wound the medic more deeply than he would ever let on as soon as the damn thing was in the post.

_I would never get a Valentine’s card from someone I wanted._ In isolation, Edward might have supposed it meant that he was too much of a grump to attract the right person, or that he carried a torch for someone unattainable. But when taken in combination with all the other little snippets, like being ‘different,’ or the way that he was cagey about romance, or, for that matter, his willingness to pack up his life and dedicate it to a blind man, it sounded an awful lot like _Men don’t send each other Valentines._ Well, most men didn’t. But Edward wasn’t most men.

He would have to come up with a proper message, was the thing. He needed something that walked the line between _Have a pleasant day_ and _I want you to carry me off in your big arms and sodomize me until I don’t know what day it is._ Something that could be passed off as a joke, should he be horribly mistaken, but would communicate something more if he was not. Well, he would take care of the front first…

…

Thomas trudged upstairs to his chilly little room. He had successfully ignored how light Edward’s latest letter was all day. Now it made its presence known uncomfortably in his breast pocket. Why wasn’t he writing properly? Was there trouble? Had Thomas been too forward with his notions about coming to help him? It sounded like it was what Edward wanted, but Thomas was nothing if not presumptuous. He knew _that_ all too well.

He sat on his bed and tore the envelope. For a long moment, he stared at what was inside. The homemade card had clearly been done with a braille slate, but there were no letters on the front. The dots, like the stars in a constellation, formed a slightly wonky heart pierced by a much wonkier arrow. It was all a bit ridiculous. Thomas wanted to cry. The message inside read simply: _I know I’m not a pretty girl, but would you walk me home from church?_

“Yes,” Thomas whispered to his empty room. Suddenly, it didn’t feel so cold.

**Author's Note:**

> Nurse Crawley got Thomas’ slate, stylus, and book on braille in a perfectly respectable fashion through Dr. Clarkson. Lord Grantham never did understand how he managed to go through so much heavy paper during the latter half of the war.


End file.
